The tongue to be smothered by heavy phonetics,
The palate to be tapped, a plea of merciful composure,
Shaky with the begging, in principle, understood;
Beneath these asbestos roofs, to be pitiable.
The name-calling, dwindling,
As their summer frivolry speeds through village roads,
Leaving me with package,
Like the begging rewarded, like surprises in gunny bags.
Maybe a dosa, half-eaten,
Maybe exotic food that spoiled,
Hopefully whipped with warm ghee,
That cashews litter.
I greedily clutch, unbending.
The veins spitting the excitement,
In a steady drone that surrounds, I see,
that far away there are coconuts; I could kneel for kernel….
To quench a thirst, to scavenge,
I clutch, still, anticipating somewhat.
Blue-veined and old, walking away.
Into the streets, to beg another day.
My survival, under these asbestos roofs.
With only the trampled sands to sing my song.
